The Rising Sun
by MedliSage
Summary: Soren's been moping for days; it's unlike him. The only person who he could ever come to deeply care takes notice and seeks to figure out what's wrong with his friend. My take on Ike and Soren's B and A supports, with much added, of course. Soren-centric.
1. Night Falls

**The Rising Sun**

_By MedliSage_

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Chapter 1: Night Falls

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It was twilight; the sun was just about halfway set, casting a hue over the horizon which started at red, then faded to all shades of the rainbow, until it was finally a dark blue of the night sky, signaling the approach of evening.

Dinner was over and Soren stood on a small balcony of Castle Begnion, leaning over the edge with his head resting on one of his hands, this arm propped up on his elbow. Mindlessly he stared into the oncoming night, the cool breeze of its approach causing his hair to sway behind him slightly.

He had been in a bad mood, and he recognized that. Perhaps it was their recent trip to Gallia – it had brought back some painful memories that lingered in the back of his mind. Or maybe it was their current stay in Begnion that caused it... But he couldn't help it; voices of the ghosts of his past echoed in his head, and he shut his eyes, trying to simply block them out. So concentrated on his memories, he did not notice footsteps approaching.

"Do you have a second, Soren?"

He turned suddenly, surprised, though he recognized the voice immediately. "What is it, Ike?"

Earlier that day, they had been in the desert, chasing down the supposed thieves – they had turned out to be an underground laguz slave emancipation group, but that was beside the point. Before the battle had started, Ike had asked him what was wrong. Thankfully, their conversation was cut short by the attack, but Soren knew Ike wouldn't just forget like that. He never just let things like that go. He didn't want him to ask what he knew he was about to – but he had no choice but to heed his question. He couldn't simply ignore Ike; he couldn't bring himself to. Besides – right now, Ike was the only person he could speak to without snapping.

Without a moment's hesitation, the swordsman spoke his thoughts. "What's wrong? You've been quiet and moody for days. What's going on?"

Soren was not one to be caught off-guard, but Ike's perceptiveness of emotions – especially his own, which he tried to readily to hide from others – did just so, and caused him to stammer, something else he never experienced. "Um... well, it's..."

"Yes?" He questioned patiently.

"...It's nothing." He paused, and Ike was about to reply to the contrary, when the he spoke again. "...You've never worried about who you are, have you? Your family? Where you came from?"

Ike blinked, not quite expecting that, and also not quite understanding how this might relate to what was wrong. Soren never seemed to care about such things as upbringing. Nevertheless he answered with his usual honesty: "Who I am...? Well, not really. No. I guess I don't understand what you're getting at. I had a father and a mother. I don't remember much about her, but otherwise, no complaints."

Soren looked not at Ike, but instead at the distant, yet ever certain approach of night. He feared if he looked at Ike now, he might lose the courage to confide in him what he was about to; not that he wanted to in the first place, he didn't want anyone to know – but Ike was special, Ike was someone he could... he could... he wasn't sure. There was something about Ike though, that made him feel as though he could tell him this and it would be okay. Going against all logic, he continued his words, in a near monotone. "It must be... nice to have loving parents. You need people to experience your childhood. To help shape the person you will become. Without an adult around to affirm and support them, a child can't know which path to take. Or who he really is."

Ike asked the obvious question: "Don't you have any memory of your parents?"

"No. The woman who raised me was not my birth mother. And she wasn't all that fond of me, anyway..." His voice stopped for a moment, her voice echoing in his ears and bringing back his painful past. "My earliest memories are of her saying, 'Why me? The world isn't fair!' or 'Stay away from me, child!' No love. No affection. She took care of me out of some sense of duty that she didn't really possess."

The swordsman had no reply; he simply stood there as Soren continued his almost monologue-like speech.

"When I was about four, a nearby sage came by and asked to take me in. He said I possessed rare magical talent. I remember the day clearly. My caretaker was delighted to give me up. In fact, she seemed almost delirious with pleasure. Smiling like a madwoman as she handed me over... The sage even gave her gold as compensation. Not that it was necessary."

"Oh, Soren... I had no idea." He had no clue of what to say; he wasn't sure of how to convey the pain that now panged his heart for his companion. Ike truly didn't have any idea – these long years he had known Soren, he never knew much of his past except for the small bit he told when they met: that he had been studying under a sage who recently died. As Soren told him this sorrowful tale, he felt a that pang of pain seep into and spread in his heart – pain for this person he considered a friend, and the cruelness of the events forced upon him.

Continuing as if chatting small talk, the mage chose not to acknowledge Ike's words. "The sage was old, and knew that death would soon come for him. His only goal was to teach his art to an apprentice. As time was short, he put me through terribly rigorous magic training. We worked day and night, without cease. I didn't even have time to think about who I really was. But it was still a better life than I had ever known. When the sage died two years later, I had acquired much magical skill. Perhaps too much for a child of my age... At any rate, once I had eaten all of the food in the sage's hovel, I left and walked for days to find help. Upon reaching civilization, I came to another grim realization... I couldn't speak. Not a word."

The pain continued to spread like a toxin in Ike's heart; worsening in intensity with every word the mage spoke. "Soren..."

Again, his voice was ignored. "Oh, I could read and write better than most of the villagers. And I could understand what they said. I just couldn't talk. I couldn't help it. The woman and the sage both used to hurl words at me. Unkind words, usually. But I never needed to answer, so –"

Ike stepped forward and took hold of his companion's wrist, simultaneously speaking his name in a rising voice in an attempt to finally grasp his attention. "Soren!"

Instantly Soren's fixated gaze the rising moon broke, meeting Ike's eyes a few inches above his. "Huh?" He said simply, as if being broken out of a trance. "Oh... I apologize, Ike. I should not have made you listen to such nonsense..."

Ike spoke again with such honesty that only he possessed, and with compassion that he showed to so few. "Soren, it's no nonsense! It's awful! It's the most terrible thing I've ever heard!" He sighed, aggravated at himself for not knowing this about his companion earlier. "Where did this happen? Was it in Begnion?"

Soren took a step back, releasing himself from Ike's grip. "No... But, there's more. I haven't told you... About my parents..." He shook his head – whatever emotion compelled him to tell Ike this much, and he had thought very well at the time it would continue into his darkest secret and deepest shame – it was leaving him at a rapid rate. "No, that's enough. I'm sorry. Excuse me..."

Without time for the swordsman to react, Soren swiftly turned and rushed into the castle, descending the stairs at a pace which caused his robes to flutter back – though his companion called for him, he did not look back once.

Ike reached out for him as he made his escape, but his pleas fell on deaf ears. "Wait, Soren? Soren!" He sighed, frustrated at his fruitless effort. "Blast!"

Soren quickly retreated to his room he had been allowed stay in, his eyes on the ground. Slamming the door, and the noise flooded through the hallway that led to his room. Locking it, he sighed. Why did he have to do that? Why did he have to flee from Ike like that? Ike, the only person he could ever fathom telling such things to. He left, despite hearing his name called out behind him, wanting him to wait... A terrible guilt bloomed in his heart as he shook his head. He just couldn't. He couldn't tell Ike of who he really was. It would destroy the precious relationship they shared – and Soren feared he couldn't survive that.

The mage walked to his bed and sat, putting most of his weight on his hands to hold him up. His head turned up to the ceiling. And then his thought a moment ago came rushing back to him – destroy his relationship with Ike? Unable to survive that?

What, exactly, was his relationship with Ike? Ike was... different. Soren felt different around Ike; he himself could not place what these emotions were, but Soren felt more... at ease with Ike than he did with other people. He did not hold the scorn he did for the general people against Ike. Ike was the person he spent much of his later childhood with; Ike was the reason he had a means to live. Ike was somebody... he wanted to help. Ike was somebody Soren knew he could never bring himself to intentionally harm, somebody he wanted to see happy.

Based on these feelings, Soren's logical conclusion was that Ike was somebody he personally cared about; the only person he ever had before.

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Chapter 1 end.

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A/N: Well, the first part of my first Fire Emblem fanfiction. Originally this was going to be just a oneshot of their A support conversation with Soren reflecting on his past a bit beforehand, but I decided to include their B support and the aftermath of that because I feel like it leads into their A quite nicely, and also well... because I just felt like it. And uh, I like Soren. xD I hope you all enjoyed this and that the next chapter is liked as well! Since, at first, it was to be a oneshot of their A support – I already have the next chapter mostly finished. I might post them together or I might wait, I'm not sure, since at the time of writing this I'm still undecided on a title. Regardless of that, chapter two is already at seven pages or so – this just made three, so, yeah... The next part is definitely a bit longer, but all wordiness aside, my main point is I hope you guys liked this and I hope you like the next part too! Oh, and I, of course, take no credit for writing the dialogue of their support. Same goes for their A support, featured in the next chapter.

_- Medli_


	2. Day Breaks

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Chapter 2: Day Breaks

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The next day, the mercenaries, upon the apostle's orders, investigated Duke Tanas's mansion. The heron he had been holding captive escaped; presumably into the Serenes Forest, where the group planned to head tomorrow, in order to make sure the bishop did not once again capture the laguz prince.

It was night now; it had been for a while. Soren lay in his bed, attempting to sleep. The effort was useless, though – his mind had begun its increasingly frequent race through his past, bringing him along to recall all the pain and misery, and to bring him, as it did every so often, the reminder of the hated truth of his true, shameful, existence.

"_Why me? The world isn't fair! Stay away from me, child!"_

He flipped his pillow over to cover his ears, in an attempt to block the voices echoing in his head out. But the effort was unsuccessful; it was going to be one of _those_ nights, those nights which he had from time to time, those nights in which he hardly slept if at all, those nights in which his past would return to torment him to no end, bringing with it all the undying pain and vivid nightmares. No matter how hard Soren would try to fight it, his mind would replay all the arduous memories of his past – and he would recall once more why he hated the world, why he hated both the beorc and the laguz, but perhaps most significantly, even though he may not have realized it – why he hated himself so.

Though Soren had been so very young, the words of the women who cared... no, not cared. The women who provided him food and shelter because she had some dull sense of duty for whatever reason – her words rung in his ears. She was his first taste of what the world would be like for him – what it was like for those who were Branded. She had treated him as if he was the spawn of a demon, as if his very touch would cause her to be cursed with a thousand years of misery. The young mage, without knowledge of how to speak, could simply just endure her verbal abuse; he understood language, but did not know how to speak it. Not like he needed to, though.

When she handed him off to the elderly sage when he was about five, he was almost as relieved as her. Maybe this person would treat him with... no, not kindness. Soren knew nothing of "kindness" then – he had never been exposed to it. Maybe this person would not treat him as if he were an incarnate of evil and doom. While this was true, the sage showed no signs of affection or care to the boy. For two years – it was nothing but hard training, as the man was desperate for a proper successor. Having seen the mark on Soren's forehead, he mistook him for a Spirit Charmer, an ideal person to carry on his magic. He took the young boy to his home in a secluded area of Gallia. Even without knowing the child was a Branded, no words were ever spoken between them; though Soren was soon capable of reading and writing far more proficiently than other children his age, he lacked the fundamental skill of spoken language. He didn't need to know how to there, either – day in and day out, it was nothing but endless training. Rigorous, ruthless training in which food was rarely given, sleep was lacking at best, and during whatever small time he was not training, he was forced to read his books and study magic instead.

The sage, upon his death, left him with absolutely nothing, save for the abundance of magic Soren had been taught in that time of his stay. Now just seven, he was left to fend for himself in a cruel world in which everyone rejected his existence.

He left promptly after the sage's passing, packing what little food and water there was left. They had lived in a remote area of Gallia, not near any sort of settlements.

It took him days to find any trace of civilization. Some hungry beasts would attack him, but with the magical wisdom of someone practically tenfold his age, the boy had been able to fight them off with minor injuries. Nevertheless, he was young and had no knowledge of any sort of first aid. Water was scarce to come by and his food quickly ran out.

Succumbing to sickness born from fatigue, he had finally found a small village of laguz. Spotting what they thought to be a youthful beorc in the distance, they quickly readied water and food; even from afar, his ragged state was apparent. Soren had read in books about the common discrimination the laguz held towards the beorc; but perhaps these people did not share those sentiments, or maybe it was he was because a child. Whatever the reason, he was relieved to have finally found refuge.

To this day, Soren recalled the following events clearly. When the beast man came upon him, he took hold of the raven-haired youth's arm before he collapsed. He asked if he was okay. The young Soren then had looked up, not knowing how to reply, unable to speak. The instant the man saw the mark on his forehead, he forcefully let go of his arm and subsequently pushed him back; Soren tumbled to the ground.

"It's a foul parentless! Don't let him come near!"

In the matter of time it took Soren to turn his head up and see what was going on, the laguz had closed the gates to their village, and only a few remained outside their houses; staring at him with looks of disdain and disgust.

Realizing he would find no safety or food here, the boy used his ever diminishing strength to stand, pulling himself up from the support of a low-hanging tree branch. He swiftly turned, not wanting to see their visages of contempt any longer, and walked in an eastward direction.

For a while he walked, not coming upon another trace of civilized life for what felt like ages. In this time, he had nothing to muse himself but to think; his mind wandered, quite distant from the task at hand.

Parentless. They had been right, he supposed – he knew nothing of his parents. The reason they called him that and treated him so, however, could only be because of his mark. Only fairly recently did Soren learn of the truth behind his existence and the small, red symbol on his forehead; the mark of a Branded. The woman who took him in for the first few years of his life had never given him any sort of explanation to her cruel treatment of him; the sage had assumed him to be a Spirit Charmer. About a year ago, however, when perusing a book in the Mainal Cathedral during one of the trips he and sage often took to Begnion, there was a page with the same mark he bore on his forehead – it said it was not that of a Spirit Charmer, but that of a Branded.

A filthy half-breed of both laguz and beorc blood.

He didn't want to believe this. He had read in the books what sort of things happened to those who were Branded. They experienced prejudice from both sides – they had no place in the world. When he lived with the woman, who lived in a slightly secluded settlement of Begnion, near the west border to Gallia, he recalled the times when laguz would pass by. The stares and words of pure prejudicial hatred they received were incredible. They were slandered, shoved, beaten. Sometimes they would fight back; though more often then not, they didn't. He often would wonder why, although he heard it was an order from a king of Gallia – where most of these laguz would come from – not to attack beorc unless it was self-defense. Though Soren had found it shallow of people just to hate them because than were different, he himself could not help but note how different they were; did the fact that they were hairy, or changed into animals and had features of them, or not use magic or weapons make them inferior? He didn't know.

After the moment of pure shock of seeing his mark – the mark for he so long believed to be one of a Spirit Charmer – be labeled as something so vile, so hated, so filthy... it couldn't be true, it couldn't! He rushed to another page in the book, looking for the mark of a Spirit Charmer to compare to his own mark. Though similar, the two were different.

Soren was a Branded.

He kept it quiet from the sage to protect himself from whatever possible fate he might have experienced otherwise. After the sage died, he felt almost relieved – now he could never find out. There was at least one person in the world who would never know of his shame.

As he drew closer to the heart of Gallia in his search for refuge, Soren came across many other small villages. All gave him the same response – upon realizing he was Branded, he was shunned and tossed detestable words and looks, and was refused entry and food.

Nightfall came. His exhausted legs gave out. Struggling to even sit up against a tree, he hugged his knees to his chest as the cold night breeze shifted in. It was autumn nearing winter, the few leaves trees had left all orange and red in color. Instead of grass, the dense forests of the region provided the turned color leaves as carpet over the dirt and blades of green. Burying his face in his knees, he sobbed. He cried for a few reasons: for the fact he could very likely die tonight of the combination of hunger, thirst, and fatigue; for the fact that everywhere he went, he was treated like a monster; and finally, he sobbed for the fate so cruelly put upon him. Why did he have to be born like this? Why did he have to live like this?

Breaking this line of miserable reminiscing, the current Soren took hold of the pillow he had been pushing against his ears, tossing it against a wall next to his bed. The anger and sorrow that flowed in him at that moment so many years ago returned to him now, as it had done on other occasions; why _was _he like this? Why did fate treat him so brutally?

Sitting up from his bed, he pushed open the door with slightly excessive force, exited the small room, and passed by the garden. Why did he have to recall all this now – there was nowhere for him to go and be completely alone, he had to stay within a certain area of the castle... sighting, he headed up to the balcony in which he had been standing after dinner. His encounter with Ike rushed back to him – he buried his face in his hands, elbows propped up on the balcony's railing. His guilt from refusing to listen to his companion's words riled in his heart again. Why did he come up here? He sighed. Lifting his head, his chin still held in his hands, he gazed outward at the full moon in the cloudless sky; it was a field of dark blue, dotted with bright, glowing stars – several stories high and with no other lights about, they were more visible than they had ever been to him. The moon, the only source of light, illuminated the sky with amazing clarity. His eyes moving down, he spotted the forest, some fifteen stories or so below him. He had hoped that perhaps the scenery would take his mind of his pointless, painful, yet unending and irrepressible reminiscing – but no, the autumn-colored leaves of the trees so far beneath him, looking so similar to the environment around him back then, reminded him even more strongly of what had happened next.

Tears had run from his eyes directly onto his tattered and dirtied robe. He took a deep breath, and his sobs gradually fell into silence. He couldn't afford this – he was wasting his energy. Tomorrow, yes... tomorrow, he would find food and shelter, and a place that would accommodate him.

...Oh, what was he thinking?! What sort of ridiculous, idealistic thinking was this? Ideals only bred disappointment and consequent misery; he had to be realistic. Let's see, tomorrow he would –

"Hey, are you okay?"

Soren's head bolted upright, black locks of unkempt hair falling onto his face and partially obscuring his eyes.

"Are you okay? Are you lost?"

The mage brushed the hair out of his vision, and saw a boy, maybe two or three years older than he, with short and messy blue hair. His eyes were of the same shade, and locked straight into his; they shone with a strong emotion – this much Soren knew, but just what that emotion was, he couldn't tell. Whatever it was, it shone as powerfully and brightly as the moon above them, and unlike the strong looks of hatred he had been cast so many times before, the look this boy gave him did not fill anger or sorrow in his heart. No, it filled it with something else, but just what that something was was a complete mystery. Though his eyes were definitely what left the mage with the strongest impact, his voice was also different and strange to him – more so than the strangeness of the words, even, as no one had ever asked him if he was okay before, much less shown to care about even at all – was something contrary about the way in which this boy spoke to him as compared to those who had spoken to him in the past; the old woman would always speak in a cold, malicious tone, and the sage never failed to speak briskly and curtly. His overall presence and demeanor towards Soren was not one of disgust or disdain, of contempt or scorn, but something completely new that he had not come across before.

This unique voice snapped him back into reality and out of his disarray of thoughts: "Can... you speak?"

Soren, unable to do so, could only stare in reply.

The boy with blue hair stood from his crouched position. "You look like you haven't rested in days... or eaten, for that matter. Come on, I'll take you to my father and my sister and the mercenaries. You can get plenty of food and water there!"

Realizing the small boy couldn't speak at the least, and perhaps couldn't even understand spoken language, he grabbed his robed wrist, forcing him to stand. Although the boy claimed to be able to provide food and shelter, Soren would normally be suspicious and untrusting, but he could not help but feel this boy was free of malice – he had no idea why he thought that, but he did. Besides, in a logical sense – how could things get worse, really? He could barely walk, he was completely exhausted... not only was this unknown feeling in his heart telling him to believe this boy, but his more dominant logical side was as well.

So the two walked northward. It had been perhaps five minutes when smoke from a fire came into view, along with a clearing – but more notable than the clearing was the building in the center, a large structure of stone, ivy strung among one of the walls that made a parameter around it, with bits of moss here and there. Also within this blockade of stone wall were three other, much smaller buildings of similar design, no larger then huts.

A girl, younger than Soren – she was four or five, maybe – emerged from a corner of the wall, and upon seeing the two of them, ran towards the pair. "Ike! Ike! Father's looking for you, where were you?"

"I'm sorry, Mist. I found this boy out in the wood, and –"

"Oh, he looks awful! I'll go get some food and Father!" And without further instruction or information, she ran off at double speed, pushing open the wooden doors to the main building and heading inside.

Ike nodded his head towards the structure, hoping to get his message across in a physical manner. Still leading him via his wrist – mostly because he was worried he could collapse at any given moment, because he sure looked like he might – the two headed into the stronghold.

A booming voice greeted them as soon the wooden doors shut, a figure as large as its tone standing atop a small flight of the stairs. "Ike! Where have you been, son?"

"I'm sorry, Father. I was coming back after practicing with Boyd, but this boy looked so starved and tired, so I stopped and brought him with me."

The petite girl with the short brown hair from earlier brought out a bowl, steaming with a warm substance. She let it down on a wooden table, placing a spoon in it. "Here you go! We just had dinner, so it's still warm! I helped make it, too."

"Mist, what are you –"

"If I may, Father," Ike interrupted. "I found this boy out in the forest when I was returning, and he just looked so worn I couldn't help but –"

"Ha! Ike, you are just like your mother sometimes. She could never turn down someone in need." It was rare for Greil to speak of his late wife; both his children blinked in surprise. Quickly changing the subject, the mercenary leader looked at the young mage. "So what's your name, boy?"

Soren was unable to reply, of course.

"He can't speak, I don't think, Father. I don't know if he understands spoken language even."

"Hm. Well, that's a problem. Can he read and write?"

"I don't know."

"Well, hand him some parchment and a pen and see if he responds to a written message."

Ike nodded, walking a table on the other side of the room and taking a piece of paper and a quill pen. Dipping it in ink once, he wrote a message and showed it to Soren.

_My name's Ike. Can you read and write? What's your name? The soup is for you._

Pleased at having a way to communicate with these people, Soren – as eagerly as he could in his fatigued state – took the pen, wrote a reply, and showed it back.

_Yes. Thank you for hospitality. I apologize for my lack of knowledge in the spoken language. My name is Soren. It is nice to meet you, Ike._

Ike, watching as the mage wrote, his family members now joined him, smiled at the response.

The rest of the night went smoothly – Soren told them of his situation through writing, though he did not divulge in too much information. He kept his true race a secret; it seems they did not recognize his mark, and he feared what may happen if they did. He simplified his situation, saying his mentor had passed and he had been searching for a place to live, because his family was deceased.

Upon learning they were a mercenary brigade, Soren realized that it could very well be an opportunity to earn a place of living and income. He knew his magic skills were unsurpassed by people years older than him, and also knowing that his mark would limit him from so many places, he felt he had to give it a shot.

After seeing his skills, Greil agreed that Soren could work under them; not immediately, he was far too young, but not in the distant future would he be able to come on jobs with them. In exchange, Soren was provided a place to stay, food, and learned from those around him how to speak. Ike would often take time to teach him, however.

Recalling this time, Soren now looked up at the moon – and he remembered how happy those times had been. On several occasions then, he almost forgot of his dirty blood; the people around him, probably through ignorance, he assumed, did not treat him differently, and thus he did not feel excluded. But, like the present, sometimes he would find himself thinking back to the way he was treated by those who _did_ realize what his mark meant – and his faith built in people by Ike and his company would quickly reduce once again.

Even though Soren probably should have learned from his experience from the day before, he was lost again in the ever turning storm of thoughts and memories that flooded his mind, and failed to notice the footsteps behind him.

"Hey, Soren."

Although he was slightly surprised to hear Ike's voice behind him, he wasn't completely shocked. He continued to gaze straight to where the trees and sky met.

"I've been thinking a lot about what you said the other day, and there's something I still don't understand. You survived. You're strong. Why would you feel insecure about who you are? Tell me. Tell me everything."

Soren whirled around and looked him straight in the eye, his fist hitting the side of the rail once, his voice stronger and more filled with emotion than Ike had ever heard before. "Curse you! Why can't you leave me be?! I don't have any friends, Ike! I don't have anyone else! If I tell you and you turn on me... I... I..." He shook his head quickly, breaking his eye contact and instead casting his gaze down and slightly left, as his voice trailed down to a near inaudible level. "I don't think I can survive it."

Unfazed by the sudden outburst, Ike continued to look into his crimson irises – though the mage did not return – and spoke in a calm, yet stern, but at the same time caring, voice. "That's why you have to tell me, Soren. You'll never tell anyone else. And if you don't tell anyone, you're just going to keep suffering. Look at you! You're a mess! Come on. Talk to me."

His friend looked up at him briefly before his stare returned to the stone floor. "Ike... I... I..."

Firmly but not without a tone of gentleness, Ike took him by the shoulders. "Soren, it's me! Trust me. I don't give two figs who your parents are! I'll stand by you."

He glanced up at him once – he instantly returned his look to the ground, however, when he realized his vision was blurring from tears. No matter what, he couldn't cry, he couldn't cry, he couldn't... "Ike, I..." He looked up without thinking, and upon seeing that Ike's eyes had not once left him, filled with such compassion and care, he sobbed. "No, I won't..." He sobbed again – he was crying in front of Ike. How pathetic, how humiliating. But no matter how pitiable that was, it could not compare with what he was now forced to tell him: "Ah, Ike... I'm... Branded. I'm one of the Branded."

And so he said it. Words he had not spoken to a soul before, words he had planned to keep secret forever. The brief silence felt like ages and was so heavy, the mage felt he might suffocate. Half expecting Ike, still holding his shoulders, to throw him back in disgust, he was met with a simple question: "A Branded? What's that?"

Soren took a deep breath and regained a part of his composure. There was no turning back now. "It's a cross between a beorc and a laguz. Such a taboo violates every teaching of the goddess. And of society. We are untouchables. Abominations. Condemned to a life of hatred and shunning from both races."

"Wait, wait," Ike cut in swiftly. "Hold it a second. Let me make sure that I follow you... You're part laguz?"

Soren continued to stare at his feet, his eyes sometimes shifting to the side, glancing at the horizon. "Yeah. This mark on my forehead is the proof. I learned about it while researching ancient books at the Mainal Cathedral. I always thought it was a birthmark. Others thought that it was the mark of a Spirit Charmer."

"What's a Spirit Charmer?"

"Magic comes from interaction with spirits. If you let one into your body, it will give you tremendous power... for a price. That's why the old sage was so interested in me. He thought I had struck such a deal. But instead, I was just a filthy Branded."

Ike nodded once. "All right. I understand. So?"

The mage looked up and met his eyes intentionally for the first time since his confession, taking a moment before saying anything. "...What do you mean, 'so?'"

He continued to speak in a calm voice – unchanged in any way. "So, you have laguz blood in your veins. So, you have a mark to prove it. So... what's the problem?"

"What's the problem...?" Soren stepped back once forcefully, causing the mercenary to let go of his shoulders. His voice rose again, his eyes once more not living those that continued to lock into his own. "Don't you find me repugnant!? I work beside you, eat beside you. I'm nothing! I don't belong anywhere! Doesn't that sicken you?"

"No," he replied simply. "It doesn't change anything. You're still you, Soren! You're a capable officer of our army." He paused, and stepped forward. "And my friend. We can't keep going unless you are with us."

Soren cast his head to the side, avoiding eye contact. He spoke quietly. "...Ike... I thought... I thought you..."

"What?"

"It was Gallia," Soren suddenly blurted. "The sage lived in Gallia. A few beorcs had settled there and..." His voice trailed off into a brief silence.

"Gallia? Are you saying..."

"When the sage died, no one would help me. I couldn't speak. Couldn't find food. I was dying. You were the only one who helped. You and your father. That's why you're my friend. My... only friend."

There was a moment of silence – though this silence was no longer heavy or asphyxiating. Then, suddenly, without warning or hesitation, Ike stepped forward and closed the distance between them, his arms around the mage's waist.

"Ah, Ike –"

"You're my friend too, Soren. And you always will be – my most treasured friend. I will always, always be here for you. So don't hide those things like that. Come and talk to me. Don't let yourself suffer like that."

"Ike..."

The two stood there for a while; Soren was unsure of what to do. After a few moments, however, he slid his arms up the swordsman's back and returned the embrace. "...You too," he finally spoke. "I couldn't stand if you suffered."

"It's a deal, then."

Ike let go of the boy, and though only a couple years younger than he, the mage was at least a head shorter, and his overall frame was much smaller.

"I never expected you to return that. You're a big softie on the inside, aren't you?"

"E-excuse me?"

Ike laughed. "Never mind."

The swordsman looked over at the horizon – it was beginning to turn purple, and even orange at the very edge.

"Come on. The sun is rising. We should at least get a little sleep."

"Mm."

The two began to descend the stairs together, but after only a few steps, the mage stopped. "Ike?"

His footsteps ceased, and he looked at his companion. "Hm?"

"Thank you."

"For what? I didn't do anything."

"...I was able to tell you that." His eyes shut – "And now... my past won't cause me to suffer anymore." – and opened again. "So... thank you."

Ike smiled – filled with the same honesty and kindness as his eyes. "You should have told me earlier. From now on, you tell me things like that. Right?"

"Right. And likewise?"

"Right."

For the first time in a long, long while, Soren smiled with sincere happiness. Side by side, the two walked down the stairs, the rising sun flooding light in front of them.

_Fin_

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A/N: Well, there you have it. It's 12:30AM, so I really have to leave – I'm tired, anyway, so this will probably be revised a lot – but I hope you enjoyed this story! The title to this chapter was taken from chapter seventeen of the game (if it wasn't obvious, since that's the battle this takes place right before). Reviews are much appreciated as always, thank you very much for reading!

_- Medli_


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